


And Will He Not Come Again?

by de_corporis



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 23:45:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19366090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/de_corporis/pseuds/de_corporis
Summary: Jon had died and been resurrected in the far North, in the shadow of the ancient magic that had raised the Wall, and the North still claimed him as its child.





	And Will He Not Come Again?

Rhaegal left just after dawn.

Daenerys was already awake. She had never been one to laze in bed when there was work to be done, and there was always work to be done - petitions to hear, disputes to settle, rebuilding efforts to oversee. But even on the rare days when she could afford a bit of idleness, she never slept much later than the sunrise. Two years after she and Drogon had flown over the smoking wreckage of King’s Landing to the Red Keep and found Jaime Lannister kneeling over the body of his sister, bloody sword in hand, visions of green fire and the screams of children still stalked her dreams. Their cries of anguish - myhsa, mother, why didn’t you come sooner? Why didn’t you save us from her? - dragged into her wakefulness, her cheeks wet with tears and her heart pounding so hard it was difficult to breathe.

Jon could keep the nightmares at bay, when he was with her. But while the blood of the dragon ran through her husband’s veins, he was still a creature of ice and snow. He’d died and been resurrected in the far North, in the shadow of the ancient magic that had raised the Wall, and the North still claimed him as its child. Too long away from it and he began to fade away, going still and quiet, his eyes turned toward something only he could see. It had terrified her at first, when she touched his hand and he didn’t turn to look at her with that smile she so loved, the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle and her heart flutter. She called his name and hadn’t so much as twitched, and the image of Drogo, lost to fever and unable to respond to her pleas for him to _just live a little longer, my sun and stars, please don’t leave me here_ flitted through her mind and stole her breath, left her cold as stone.

But Rhaegal had known what to do. Rhaegal had swept down and bathed Jon in warm, sulfur-scented breath, given him the strength to climb on to the dragon’s back and follow the summons of the North’s ancient gods away from the south, away from Daenerys. She might have wept, if Drogon hadn’t nudged her with his immense head and crooned softly, the sound rumbling through her body. Do not despair, the dragon seemed to say. All will be well.

She ran her hand over the empty sheets next to her, allowed herself one more moment to wish she were touching Jon’s sleep-warmed skin, then swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. There was no use in trying to sleep longer. Better to go outside and let the stiff ocean breezes clear her head.

Most of the sky was still dark, but the eastern horizon was touched with streaks of rose and orange. She walked past the slumbering heap of dragon wings and tails to the cliff’s edge, and stared out over the sea. The ceaseless pounding of the waves against the stone resonated deep in her bones, as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. She had been born on this island, drawn her first breaths here, and some primal part of her had never forgotten that. She felt grounded here, on this rocky soil, in a way she never was in Essos. She knew it was expected that she’d return the monarch’s seat to King’s Landing once the Red Keep was habitable once more, but the thought of doing so brought her no pleasure. That place was full of ghosts. She’d rather stay here, in the place of her birth, where Rhaegal and Drogon could fly freely over the ocean.

The sky grew brighter, and the curve of the sun appeared and limned the waves with gold. Sunlight raced across the waves, up the rocky cliffs, and across the windswept grass until it illuminated the dragons’ scales. Rhaegal lifted his head and shook his wings free, ignoring Drogon’s rumble of irritation, then walked to the precipice. He paused for a moment, his tongue flicking out to taste the air, then sprang aloft, his powerful wings catching the air and bearing him northward.

She shaded her eyes and watched his flight. She wasn’t sure how exactly Rhaegal knew when it was time to leave, whether it was some distant summons from Jon, far away in the lands north of North, or her own yearning to hold her husband in her arms, or if the dragon himself simply yearned for his rider. She liked to believe that Jon summoned Rhaegal to him, that he ached for her as much as she ached for him and wanted to return; it also brought her comfort to think that if Jon were ever in dire need, the dragon would know and rush to her husband’s aid.

“Bring him back to me,” she called, the sea breeze catching her words and bearing them aloft. She watched Rhaegal until he was nothing more than a speck in the brilliant blue sky, then turned and made her way back toward the keep, her heart lighter than it had been when she first woke up.

It wouldn’t be long now, not long at all before Jon was in her arms once more.

 

 

* * *

 

  
Until the Red Keep could be sufficiently restored, Daenerys chose to hold court in the ruins of the Dragonpit. Even though the Iron Throne itself had proved too cumbersome to move, the pit was large enough for Drogon to crouch behind her seat and fix his burning eyes on all who approached, and his presence a more potent symbol of queenship than any chair could hope to be.

It also meant she could arrive and depart on dragonback, a piece of pageantry that brought her no small measure of delight. She savored her daily flights from Dragonstone, when she soared high above the sparkling waters of Blackwater Bay with the wind whipping through her hair. On dragonback she felt most like herself, young and free with all the world before her, and Drogon’s answering exultation spilled into her own mind until the two of them were almost one. She’d heard that Daena the Defiant once that said she was born to ride a dragon; it was a sentiment Daenerys Breaker of Chains understood.

Seven days after Rhaegal journeyed north, she and Drogon flew out of the Dragonpit into the kind of evening that made her want to fly forever. The air was just cool enough to be pleasant, the western sky was painted in vivid shades of orange and red, and Drogon’s body was warm and strong beneath her legs. The day had gone well - the new vines planted in the Arbor were flourishing, the restoration of the Sept of Baelor was almost complete, and a fleet of trade ships from Meereen had arrived, their holds full of spices and silk. Her realm was at peace, recovering from the years of constant warfare, and she had everything she’d dreamed of as a lonely girl wandering through the Red Waste with nothing but a ragged _khalasar_ and three newly hatched dragons barely the size of cats, everything except -

Off in the distance, a dragon roared.

Drogon’s answer split the skies, and Daenerys’ heart leaped in her chest as she spotted Rhaegal up ahead. She tightened her hold on Drogon’s spines and leaned forward, urging her mount to fly faster.

“Onward,” she whispered. “Let’s catch them.”

They met just south of Dragonstone. Drogon and Rhaegal circled around each other in greeting, drawing so close that Daenerys could see Jon’s smile in the twilight. She smiled in return, and the joy bubbling through her veins made her feel like she didn’t need a dragon’s wings to fly.

The dragons danced, and the sky faded to a deep blue speckled with silver stars. Daenerys caught a glimpse of Jon’s expression, equal parts of delighted and mischievous as he urged Rhaegal to fly higher, and she sent Drogon after him. The two dragons soaring so high that Dragonstone’s mighty Keep seemed no larger than a child’s toy; and then, just as her lungs started to burn in protest of the thin air, they plummeted downward, speeding faster than arrows shot from the great weirwood bows used by Northern archers.

Daenerys gasped in delight, and the sound was immediately snatched away by the rush of wind. She felt no fear, even as the dark waters of the bay rushed closer and closer. She had complete faith in her mount, and when the dragons pulled up at the last second and raced across the water, their wings barely skimming over the waves, she threw her head back and howled her exhilaration to the skies.

“Again,” she cried, and Drogon and Rhaegal sped skyward. “Again!”

By the time they turned toward Dragonstone, Daenerys was out of breath, her hair was tangled from the wind, and the blood burned hot in her veins. She felt gloriously, intoxicatingly alive. Drogon had scarcely touched the ground before she slid from his back and raced toward her husband, eager to touch him, kiss him, exult in feeling him beneath her hands once more.

Jon waited for her with outstretched arms, the smile she loved stretching across his face, dark eyes sparkling with warmth. She threw herself into his embrace, and their lips met in a kiss. He tasted of the North, of ice and snow and the sharp scent of pine, but when she caressed the nape of his neck, the skin was warm.

When they finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against her and closed his eyes. “Dany,” he murmured, and brushed his fingers gently against her cheeks. “Dany.”

And let the North have him for six moon turns in the year, if it kept Jon from fading away entirely. Let the cold mountains winds have their time with him, if that was what it took to restore his spirit and prevent him from falling back into that endless slumber. Because he might be ice, but he was also fire, and her fire called to him as surely as the Northern snow did.

“I’m here, my love,” she whispered in reply, and their lips met once, twice, three times. “I have you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the idea here is that Dany and Jon have a Hades/Persephone vibe going on, where Jon needs to return to the North for a certain amount of time each year to keep his resurrection juice going. Yes, that sidelines R'hllor. No, I do not care.


End file.
